The Meeting
Who did this lady think she was? He let his eyes roll in different directions as the black haired woman paced through the enormous room in front of him, gliding from display case to display case and jabbering on about her extraordinary talent and her desire for knowledge. The blood and gore in the cases didn't seem to bother Marissa Fittes, and the howling of the spirits connected to them even less so. Every now and then she would direct a question at him, and he would pointedly ignore her.
Two hours prior, right before the sun was about to set and he would've been able to defend his source, he had been fished out of Lambeth Sewers by what he assumed to be a group of the woman's lackeys. He had woken up dazed and constricted in a silver net as the small group of grey-clad children marched through the unrecognisably changed streets of London. They had taken him to a grand building on the strand and handed him off to a white-clad man that doused him with lavender water. The fragrant water had burned like hell, and for a few moments it was as if he was dying all over again.
So when somebody put his skull on a cart with a squeaky wheel -encircled by a thin loop of iron shackles so narrow he could barely form his body without looking like it was squeezed into a glass tube- and wheeled him into a large conference hall, he was not in the best of moods. No, if he had been able to, he would have Touched everybody in the vicinity. Instead he was forced to stay still and listen to the woman's rambling.
The woman had introduced herself as Marissa Fittes and explained where and when he was. It had been roughly sixty years since his demise, and apparently ghosts had recently flooded the whole of England. Marissa Fittes was one of the leading figures in the fight against this Problem.
She wasn't exactly beautiful, but he had to admit that there was something about her that drew his gaze to her, made it hard to look away. Perhaps it was the way her sharp features contrasted with the elegant beauty of the stuccoed room and its sparkling chandeliers, or the way she seemed to be completely at ease with all the horrors displayed in the glass cases spread over the room. Either way, she had a quality about her that made his ectoplasm crawl.
"Answer me, Spirit," the woman snapped suddenly, no longer content with being the sole speaker in the conversation.
"I'm sorry what was the question? I wasn't listening," he drawled. He would've raised his hand to examine his nails, but the iron circle severely limited his body language. He wasn't even lying, he hadn't listened to her speech.
"The afterlife!" she sneered, her nose scrunching up in disdain at having to repeat herself. "You are one of the few able to communicate, so tell me! What happens when one dies? Is there life after death?"
He couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up at that, loud and hollow, echoing strangely against the high ceiling. If the ghostly sound bothered the woman, she didn't show it.
"If I knew, do you think I would be hanging around here still? I am not ready to go off into the great unknown just yet, lady. That's why I am a communicating spirit."
"You chose to stay behind?"
"Of course I did."
"Is that the difference between normal ghosts and Type Threes then? You were aware you were dying and wanted to live?"
With a start he realised she had tricked him into the conversation, and he gave an angry snort.
"Who knows? What is it to you?"
"I want to understand, Spirit. If we understand the nature of Visitors, we would be able to save so many people and-" he interrupted her with a groan, squishing his ectoplasm against the boundary of the iron circle. If the involuntary clench of her jaw was any indication, it was not a pretty sight for Marissa. He could feel a crackle of anger in the air, and the ghosts in the cases responded with agitated howls and contortions before quieting down again as Marissa took a deep breath.
"Messing with the dead is not the way to do that," he told her, sounding decisive.
"Who are you to decide that?" Marissa asked defiantly.
"I have seen greater people than you perish in the pursuit of this kind of knowledge. If my Master couldn't do it, I highly doubt you can."
"I do not know who your master was, but I doubt he had my Talent-"
"He didn't need them, that's what he had me for," he interrupted. The woman pursed her lips and watched him with calculating eyes.
"What can you tell me about ectoplasm?" she asked after a moment.
He cocked his head - or tried to at least; the top of his head hit the boundary of the iron circle and smudged as if it was made of soft clay – and raised his eyebrows.
"It's what ghosts are made of," he stated.
"Well of course it is what ghosts are made off," Marissa bit, "but what is it? Where does it come from?" Behind her the ghostly ruckus swelled again, hinting at her agitation.
"It is the part of a human that doesn't die, I assume," he replied with a shrug, "the immortal soul, if you will. I don't know more about it, I'm dead, not a scholar."
The noise swelled further.
"It's not good enough!"
"It's all I can tell you! The answers to this ghost Problem won't be found in the secrets of death lady! Something messed with the natural order of things, which allows us to stay around easily, and until somebody does something about that it will only grow worse."
Marissa looked like she was about to press the issue more, but before she could open her mouth again, there was a loud knock on the double doors. She took a moment to calm herself and called for the person on the other side to come in.
A young woman wearing the same silver uniform he'd seen on Marissa's lackeys cautiously squeezed herself through a crack of the doors, as if opening them further would expose her to unwanted attention.
"Miss Fittes, your contact with that new Orpheus group has arrived, do you want me to tell him to come back later?" she asked, nervously playing with the sleeves of her jacket. Marissa sent a dazzling smile her way, all traces of her earlier annoyance having melted away. "No, that is okay miss Wilson, I am done here anyway."
"Oh, you are Miss Fittes? I thought it was a Type Three?"
"He is," Marissa replied. "Just not a helpful one."
The younger woman cast a fearful glance in his direction, and then nodded in agreement as if that look had told her everything she needed to know.
"Take him away," Marissa told the young woman as she made her way to the door. "I'm sure we can find him a nice case in this room, don't you think, Miss Wilson? Exaggerate the story of his find a bit and I'm sure the tourist will line up to see the newest addition to our collection."
Wilson nodded and approached the little cart the ghost's source was set on. A feeling of panic welled up as Marissa's comment registered in his mind. He cast a glance around the display cases full of howling spirits, their protests and pleas falling on deaf ears or being ignored all together.
"Oy Marissa!" he called out to get her attention. The woman turned around with an almost regal movement, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes.
"Did you decide to speak after all, Spi-"
He interrupted her by making the most vulgar face he could manage. Her eyes widened and spots of colour appeared on her cheeks.
"If you put me in one of those cases, I'll be doing this as long as I'm manifested!" He crossed his eyes for emphasise and did something improbable with his tongue. "I will make sure you won't be able to host any kind of fancy event here at night ever again!"
This time Marissa wasn't able to bite back her anger as easily.
"Find him a nice jar," she bit at her helper.
"But Miss Fittes, you just said he is a Type Three!"
Steely eyes met ectoplasmic ones.
"That is not something anybody will ever know."
A/N: This is how I imagine the meeting between the Skull and Marissa Fittes might have gone. Written for the Skull zine 2018 which can be found on tumblr, blog name: skull-zine